Asexy Adventures
by Expecto-Prongs
Summary: "You what?" Sherlock made an impatient noise. "I want to go out with you. On a date." "Yeah, but I thought you were…" he made an indiscernible noise, but Sherlock stood patiently before him, arms crossed and frowning slightly. "Yes?" "Asexual." The silence was too much and he looked up at Sherlock's face, only to see confusion. "So?" A Johnlock fic, with asexual Sherlock.
1. The Proposal

Chapter 1: The Proposal

**This story portrays an asexual character. I am asexual myself, so I am drawing upon my headcanon and my own personal feelings. Speaking of, not every asexual person is the same. So this portrayal of Sherlock does not ring true for every asexual person. That being said, this fic has a lot of fluff, and mention of sex at some points. Nothing explicit. This is mostly me channeling frustrations about the lack of awareness of asexuality, in the fun, harmless form of Johnlock. Enjoy!**

Over the past few months, a comforting routine had settled in 221 B Baker Street. There was hardly any discord among its occupants. John and Sherlock had fallen into step with one another; they could anticipate each other's moods and check and balance each other's shortcomings. Sherlock upsets a witness, John comforts them. John is irritable, Sherlock smoothly distracts him from his ire. It is a system that took a long time to perfect. They were almost at the point where they could finish one another's sentences. It was no wonder that most of New Scotland Yard suspected they were dating. They weren't, of course. They weren't.

Sherlock was lounging on the couch, staring absently at the ceiling thinking about God only knows what, and John was slouched in his preferred chair, a cup of tea in one hand and the morning paper in the other. The two friends were content in their companionable silence, a quiet they grew to appreciate after the hustle and bustle of a crime scene or a noisy chase down a crowded London Street. It was one of those days that warranted relaxing... never mind that there was milk that needed to be picked up or experiments that needed attending to. This was a quiet day for thinking. And while neither occupant was aware of it, they were both thinking of one another.

Over the past year, John had noticed that he was completely enamored in his flat mate. His overbearing, irritating, attractive, completely unaware and completely unavailable flatmate. John was careful not to overstep bounds. He was careful not to stare, not to touch, not to upset. He was resigned to the fact that nothing could ever come out of his adoration for his friend. He was okay. Really.

"John." Sherlock's voice pierced through his thoughts. He absently noticed he had been staring at the same sentence for quite some time. Sighing, he turned to his friend, who was still lying motionless on the couch.

"Yes," he intoned dutifully. He had been enjoying the quiet, the time to think, but if Sherlock saw the need to say something in the midst of the serenity, it meant something important. So John patiently waited for Sherlock to finish the conversation he had started.

Suddenly, the younger man shot up out of his sprawl. The sudden movement from complete stillness made John's muscles twinge in sympathy. Before he knew it, Sherlock was towering over his slouched form.

"John," Sherlock said again, a little less sure. "Do you want to… go out some time?"

Whatever John had been expecting, it certainly hadn't been that.

"Ah, what?" His brain needed a moment to recalibrate. Was Sherlock asking him out? _Him_ out?

"I notice how you look at me, and I think we would be a compatible couple, all things considered." He spoke the last bit quickly, maybe even shyly, eyes never leaving John's face. He was searching for denial, joy, doubt, anything _anything_ that would give him a hint into what John was thinking.

"You… what?" John felt like he was suffocating. This was a dream come true, but such uncharted territory, so unprecedented…

Sherlock made an impatient noise. "I want to go out with you. On a date."

"Yeah, but I thought you were…" he made an indiscernible noise, and Sherlock stood patiently before him, arms crossed and frowning slightly.

"Yes?"

"... Asexual."

There was a pause, and John didn't dare to look up from his feet. Finally, the silence was too much and he looked up at Sherlock's face, only to see confusion.

"So?"

"So…?" John echoed, feeling out of his depth.

"I still want to be in a relationship with you," Sherlock said, smiling lightly with just a tinge of uncertainty.

John let out a loud breath, working through all of the data he had on Sherlock in his head. This latest development just set fire to about half of his mental filing cabinets.

"But, with the Woman… you didn't…" Sherlock made a face, and John felt remarkably stupid.

"Even if I wasn't asexual, I still wouldn't want to be with Ms. Adler. She is most definitely not my type."

"So what is your type," John blurted impulsively, a confused little flutter of hope igniting in his chest. Sherlock smiled pleasantly, causing little creases to form by his eyes.

"Why, my dear John, my type is you, of course."

**Chapters will be short. There are four in total, and then it is over. **


	2. The Kiss

Chapter 2: The Kiss, and the promise of more thereafter

It had been a few weeks since Sherlock, and John still couldn't believe it, not really, had asked him out. Upstanding, cold Sherlock was dating the one hundred percent heterosexual John Watson. He couldn't even begin to work out how this is was working. But it was.

_"Why, my dear John, my type is you, of course."_

John had stared at Sherlock, mouth agape, until the man had started to grow antsy under his scrutiny. The doctor had to swallow three or four times before he could answer.

_"I think we should give it a go."_ he had said throatily, while subtly pinching himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Sherlock had flushed a pleased pink before nodding and stalking out of the room. John was left with his own thoughts for the rest of the day.

Ever since then, their relationship had become increasingly tactile. Sherlock brought him tea in the mornings, and leaned up against him on the couch. During crime scenes, Sherlock stood so close to John that he could feel his body heat. And then there was the hand holding. Out in the park, during chases, anytime really. Somehow, Sherlock holding his hand felt different than it had with anyone else. It seemed more intimate, like it meant more.

John had never been in a relationship like this before. With a man. With an asexual man, who happened to be his best friend. It should have been complicated, but it wasn't. It was refreshingly, beautifully simple. He let Sherlock guide the relationship. To John, it was much simpler than him somehow breaking the bond they had formed with a misplaced gesture, or a presumptive move. He loved their relationship, and he adored Sherlock. He had never met anyone like him, and to be at his center of attention, of his affection, felt like a million stars bursting in his chest. He loved the familiarity he had with him, a man who shut most people away. But not John.

Sherlock and John sat together on the couch, the glow of the telly giving them an ethereal look. Sherlock had previously leaned his head onto John's shoulder and made himself comfortable. John absently carded his hand through Sherlock's overlong locks, which were in dire need of a cut. It was cozy, and homey.

John gave a hum of absent approval when the striking commercial for the new James Bond film flashed onto the screen. He had a bit of a weakness for those movies. He couldn't wait to see Skyfall. Daniel Craig was his favorite Bond by far.

Sherlock looked up at his friend… boyfriend? with a thoughtful expression. It was obvious that John wanted to see the movie very badly, but based upon previous patterns, he would probably wait an extra few weeks after it came out to so that he could get a ticket with less hastle. Suddenly, Sherlock pushed off of John and snatched his computer off of the adjacent table.

"Wait! Sherlock, that's my…" but the man had already retreated into his bedroom, and slammed the door. "I'm dating a five year old," John muttered to himself without any real heat. He snorted before turning back to the TV. Sherlock would be back sooner or later. No need to push him.

Sure enough, Sherlock came back fifteen minutes later. Without the laptop. He reestablished his position on John's shoulder as if nothing had happened, smiling lightly when John put his hand back on his head habitually.

Two days later, Sherlock was waving tickets to the twelve o'clock premiere of Skyfall in John's face, watching John's expression carefully. He loved how expressive John was. An expressive man is a trustworthy man, a man with nothing to hide.

John's face lit up with unadulterated happiness, and Sherlock couldn't help beaming back at him. It was worth the extra money it cost to get to the premiere, just to see John's face. Before he knew it, John's lips were on his in a gentle, chaste kiss. Sherlock smiled into the kiss only to have John withdraw a moment later.

"God Sherlock, I'm so sorry," he said, all of the joy draining from his face. Sherlock felt his heart plummet. Was he not good enough? Did he do something wrong? He frowned at the fretful look of John's face. "I should never have… I'll understand if you want to break this off, just please let me keep living with you. I love you," John said, looking absolutely like a kicked puppy. Sherlock's stomach gave a confused backflip at John's simultaneous declaration of love and panic.

"Did I do something wrong?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice measured. John looked at him like he had three heads, and Sherlock felt himself growing more confused. "Why did you… stop," he said, cringing at how childish he sounded.

"You're asexual," John said with a puzzled frown. Sherlock wanted to hit his head against the wall. He opened his mouth and closed it, unsure of how to proceed. After a moment, he decided that actions would speak louder than words. He walked steadily up to John and leaned in for another chaste kiss, continuing it until John relaxed into it. Then he broke it off. "I…" John trailed off, looking elated and quizzical.

"I don't fear a relationship with you John," Sherlock said softly.

"I know, I just thought that I overstepped a boundary, or upset you, or…" Sherlock interrupted him with a peck on the cheek.

"We'll figure it out," he promised, trying to assuage John's uncertainties.

"Yeah…" John breathed, once again struck by the fact that he was _dating Sherlock Holmes_, "we will."

**Next Chapter: Cuddles! And a little angst. Take time to review!**


	3. Of Nightmares and Cuddling

Chapter Three: Of Nightmares and Snuggling

**Thanks for all the feedback guys! I'm glad you like it!**

It wasn't known by many outside of Baker Street, but Sherlock wasn't the only one with danger nights. John had them too, perhaps even more frequently than his flatmate. Sometimes, when the weather was just right to get his shoulder to twinge, and he was especially run down or stressed, he would have one such night.

Tonight was one of those nights. Sherlock wasn't blind to it. He saw how John cringed at every loud noise, how he rubbed his shoulder and looked behind him every few steps. It was one of those nights where his PTSD flared, and his past haunted him.

It had been a trying week. They had been trying to catch a particularly nasty killer, which amounted to three failed chases and four all nighters. In the end, the bad guy was caught, but it left Sherlock, John, and Scotland Yard worse for wear. Combined with the construction going on at ungodly hours right across from Baker Street, it was a sure fire way to get John to be on edge.

Sherlock was sure to give his friend some space. All he wanted to do was reassure him, and stay close, but he knew that it wouldn't help John. Hanging off of him wouldn't make the tired bags under his eyes go away, or the restless twitch of his hand fade, or drive away the slight relapse of his old psychosomatic limp. If anything, it would just make John more standoffish and troubled. So, Sherlock contented himself in being a silent rock for the man he loved, a constant background presence to distract from the imagined combat. John would come to him when he was ready.

The detective watched John start to nod off with a heavy heart. John always stayed up a lot later than usual when he was like this, reluctant to go to sleep where the past became his present, and his nightmares became reality. But, as tough as the doctor was, he couldn't stay awake anymore. With a subdued goodnight, John made his way to his bedroom and shut the door quietly behind him. Sherlock remained on the couch, not moving from his sprawled position even as he heard John finish his nightly routine and presumably climb into bed.

In the past, Sherlock would lie there all night. He wouldn't, couldn't do anything for his friend but stay awake in a silent, unrecognized gesture of solidarity, listening intently for a mutter, a moan, even a scream. He would count the time between REM cycles, work out when he would most likely fall into another night terror. He could only imagine the horrors that pinned John under the cloak of disturbed slumber. Sherlock had seen many terrible things in his life, but never had he experienced war. And on these nights where John's whimpers echoed through the flat, he wished that it had been he who had experienced it, just to spare John the trauma.

It wasn't long before Sherlock heard a shout, and the creak of bedsprings as his doctor shot out of bed. He heard the man pace about the room, before the bed creaked again as John tiredly climbed back in. In an hour or so, give or take, it would happen again. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, and breathed slowly. This was the first night that John had a flare up since he and Sherlock began dating. Things had changed between them, boundaries had shifted and rules had been reformed. In the past Sherlock could do nothing but listen to his flat mate's torment, but now, now he had to do something. Anything. He couldn't stand it anymore.

John was lying on his back, in his bed. He was covered in sweat, and his eyes were wide open. He couldn't bring himself to close them again. He knew that when he did, his bed would become sand, his duvet would be chains, and every creak of the house would be gunfire and explosions. His dreams always manifested themselves in the form of the what ifs of combat that never came to pass, but played themselves out in full while he was asleep. Comrades dying around him while he is powerless, unable to move. Insurgents torturing him for information. Being trapped in a car bomb explosion with his unit.

He was being irrational. None of this happened. Everything was behind him. He was in 221 B Baker Street. His best friend, the man he loved, was sleeping downstairs.

Why couldn't he close his eyes?

No matter how determined he was not to fall back asleep, his week had been Hell, and he was only human. His eyes began to drift close.

That is, until he heard a noise. A door creaking open, trying to be quiet but not quite managing it. He tensed, hand creeping under his pillow to touch the knife he kept there on nights like these. He opened his eyes slightly and turned slowly towards the source of the noise.

"John." A voice, unmistakable in its familiarity, reached across the chasm of his fear and warmed him. Sherlock. He relaxed minutely, but did not reply. The simple intonation had served its purpose, and did not invite response. He let go of the knife and breathed deeply. Baker Street. Sherlock. Right.

He heard Sherlock shuffle across the floor, before pausing for a moment. The moment passed quickly, however, and Sherlock climbed into bed with him. John was surprised. However much Sherlock proved time and time again that he was willing to be intimate with him, affectionate gestures still shocked him to a certain extent. It was just such a far stretch from the man he thought he knew, who apparently was oddly romantic. John moved over slightly, and Sherlock curled around him. The smaller man felt safe in his cocoon of Sherlock, who smelled like tea, sandalwood, and slightly of chemicals. He matched his breathing with Sherlock's and fell into an idyllic sleep.


	4. What He Never Would Have Expected

Chapter Four: What He Never Would Have Expected

**This chapter contains mentioned sexual content. But it's off screen, for the most part. Here's my warning, and I beg you to heed it. This is not how ALL ASEXUAL ACT! this is an example of one asexual character. This is not an accurate representation of all asexual people, myself included.**

**Here we go. They are going to do the do. If find this an important topic in terms of asexuality, because it's important to note that asexuals can still have sex and be asexual.**

**Thanks to all the positive feedback, I couldn't do this without y'all.**

Over the last few months, Sherlock and John became an item. Everyone at New Scotland Yard regarded them as one entity. There was never Sherlock without John, and never John without Sherlock. It was always John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. Holmes and Watson.

_They're Boyfriends, You Know. Isn't It Odd?_

_I Would Have Never Pegged Watson As Gay, But Whatever Floats His Boat._

_Who Would Ever Date That Insufferable Twat?_

_Do You Think They've_ [insert wild hand motions and waggled eyebrows here] _You Know…_

Sherlock and John ignored the nosy officers at the crime scene. Comments like those had become common ever since they had kissed for the first time in public, right after Sherlock had narrowly avoided being shot and John beat the assailant mercilessly until he begged for mercy.

People always seemed to forget that John had been a soldier. Their mistake.

But the constant less-than-professional tittering that followed the couple wherever they went didn't faze them. They had each other, and that was all they also had Greg on their side, so that was a bonus too.

Being with Sherlock was the best feeling in the world. To have his looming presence and limitless intellect focused on John, an ordinary PTSD ridden army doctor gave him a new point of view in life. As they grew closer, they were able to read each other's intentions to the point where they didn't even need to speak. Watching movies, going to crime scenes, getting take out… these previously mundane activities held new meaning to John. During movies, they would cuddle. At crime scenes, they would hold hands. They'd still squabble over eating and take out, but even the bickering held a new warmth for both Sherlock and John. And the kissing… well, that was nice too.

Contrary to what John had earlier believed, Sherlock was not a prude when it came to kissing. One moment it could be chaste, another it could be full of passion and emotion. John learned to read which way Sherlock was willing to go. He knew when to deepen the kiss or let it remain innocent.

So what if John got reaquainted with his left hand? He would gladly never have sex again if he could just stay like this with Sherlock forever. He would sacrifice anything for him.

Which is why, one seemingly normal Thursday evening, John had to struggle to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

"Come again?" John said, choking on his spit slightly. He flushed with embarrassment at Sherlock's fond smile.

"I think we should have sex." Sherlock said calmly, quelling the nervous butterflies in his stomach. What if John didn't want him that way? What if he did it wrong?

John straightened in his seat, staring intently at his partner, who was perched in the armchair across from him.

"Sherlock," he said softly, evenly. As if trying not to spook him. Sherlock resisted the urge to snort, but let John work through it. "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do for my sake." His eyes were wide, and his breath was hitching in his chest. Not signs of desire, but concern.

"You know me. I would never do anything I wasn't comfortable with. John, I love you," John blushed at that, "and I trust you enough that I want to do this."

It wasn't as if he was a virgin. It had just been… a while. He never had the desire to have sex outside of curiosity. After the first time, he had been unimpressed and left it at that. It wasn't as if he was longing to have sex even now, but the prospect of making John blush and stammer and smile was enough to outweigh his disinterest.

"Are you sure," was all John said, gripping his chair firmly, back tense.

"Yes."

It wasn't too long before Sherlock and John were in bed. If he was being honest, Sherlock found the whole business vaguely pleasing, but mostly tedious. What made it bearable, and gratifying, was watching John's face, cataloguing the sounds he made and the way his expressions broadcasted his every thought, his every feeling. It wasn't a sight he was soon to forget.

Later, as they lay in bed together, John turned towards Sherlock and smiled.

"So, how was it," he said, smiling slyly and winking. Sherlock huffed out a laugh.

"It was… interesting," he said honestly. John laughed richly at that, and he shook the bed with his giggles.

"Don't get used to it," he teased. "I don't plan on doing this again for a long, long time." John smiled at Sherlock, warm and accepting.

Sherlock was speechless. It was obvious John had enjoyed himself, and yet he was willing to put everything aside for him.

"Thank you," Sherlock said genuinely, moving closer to his boyfriend. John was warm, and he felt himself beginning to relax.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," John hummed. "I love you."

"Love you too."

**I think this may be the end. The end!**


End file.
